Which is to say dusk is approaching,
as Pablo from Thessaloniki and Paige from Fox Chapel
prepare to say their goodbyes. Pablo moving back to Cologne,
which is a Latin word for colony. Paige back to Shadyside,
which is a Pittsburgh word for nice place to live. Tonight,
they stand on a rooftop in East Liberty,
the roof appearing not far from collapse, and all
around the old redbrick apartment,
new lofts paneled with aluminum rise.
Shall we mourn for old Pittsburgh? For the belching
smokestacks, the cheap pierogis, the rust
taste of Iron City? When Primantis was a place to grab
drunkfood and on no blogger’s eat-before-you-die list? Pittsburgh:
the unlivable, the vacant, the uninspired waste. Shall we mourn
this sunset, with Pablo and Paige,
now shading the pale hotels atop North Oakland,
pouring crimson over the great green crown
of the Hill District? The sky is on fire. There is a certain light
in Pittsburgh that still causes me to salivate, a certain
blue that cuts inside the burning afternoon, that pulls one foot
in front of the other, a certain wonder
that lies in finding two strangers atop this old building,
drinking the evening. Maybe, they are in love, will find
each other across the Atlantic, or perhaps in understanding,
will part. Sometimes it is more than one should expect: this paradise,
gazing from a roof, watching, releasing the caps
of Coronas with the lip of an old steampipe, talking about Athens,
peregrines, and change. Endless change.